


(nothing is) forever

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gentle Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Post-Canon, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Sort of? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: “Stop!” Crowley begged.  “Don’t…don’t come over here, angel.  Please.”The sound of slippered footsteps ceased, and Crowley heard Aziraphale rock in place, the floorboards creaking under his weight.  He must have been less than a meter behind the sofa.“May I ask why?”Aziraphale’s voice was gentle; oh so gentle.  Crowley didn’t deserve it, especially as he was; if Aziraphale saw him now….“I don’t want you to see me,” he mumbled into the cushion.  “I wouldn’t want to see me like this.  Let me spare you.”  He laughed wetly.Aziraphale’s breathing faltered.  He shuffled on the floorboards, but he didn’t approach.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 332





	(nothing is) forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MovesLikeBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/gifts).



> I love you, Bucky. Remember, I'm still down to fistfight a grown man on your behalf. <3
> 
> And a big thanks to D20Owlbear and and Tigerdog1 for looking this over for me.

“Crowley?” 

Aziraphale’s voice cut through the darkness of the room, and Crowley flinched where he had curled up on the sofa. His heartbeat, already pounding in his head, jumped up a notch. His breathing was a rapid, hissing rasp.

“My dear?” Aziraphale sounded closer now, nearer in the darkness of their living room. The angel had doubtlessly woken up and found him missing, and the image of it, of Aziraphale waking up to a cold, empty bed, made Crowley want to disappear. The thought of Aziraphale worrying made him _hurt_ , even more than how badly he felt already. 

“Crowley? I think—I think I can hear you. Are you alright? Please, my dear, answer me.”

“I’m here, angel,” he hissed miserably, burying his face into a throw pillow; Aziraphale’s footsteps approached him in the dark, and Crowley held his breath for as long as he could bear it. 

“Stop!" he begged. "Don’t…don’t come over here, angel. Please.”

The sound of slippered footsteps ceased, and Crowley heard him rock in place, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He must be less than a meter behind the sofa.

“May I ask why?” 

Aziraphale’s voice was gentle; oh so gentle. Crowley didn’t deserve it, especially as he was; if Aziraphale saw him now….

“I don’t want you to see me,” he mumbled into the cushion. “ _I_ wouldn’t want to see me like this. Let me spare you.” He laughed wetly. 

Aziraphale’s breathing faltered. He shuffled on the floorboards, but he didn’t approach. 

“Very well,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I’ll stay right here, then. Although I can’t think of a reason why I’d ever want to be _spared_ of you. I love you.”

Crowley scoffed.

“Don’t know why.”

“Would you like me to tell you? You know that I’m always happy to list the reasons why I love you.” Aziraphale’s weight shifted on the floorboards, and there came a rustling of clothes and then a soft thump as the angel settled himself down on the floor.

Crowley shook his head wordlessly. The pillow was soft against his nose.

“My dear, you know I’ll do it,” Aziraphale said.

“No,” Crowley hissed quietly. And then more loudly, “No. I know. It’s just….” He trailed off, listening to Aziraphale breathe as he waited patiently for Crowley to finish. Crowley could picture him perfectly, sitting on the floor behind the sofa; he’d still be in the pajamas he’d worn to bed that night: a soft gray flannel set that matched his tartan slippers well enough, but not exactly. His hair would be rumpled from sleep, flat on one side the way it always was in the mornings when they woke up, and his expression would be one of gentle acceptance. Aziraphale could always spare that look for Crowley, and Crowley knew that he had a similar version of it himself which he would wear for Aziraphale. There wasn’t much that he _wouldn’t_ do for Aziraphale, which was why he would spare the angel this; spare him _him_. But Aziraphale deserved an explanation, didn’t he? He was an inquisitive bastard; he’d be wanting answers, although he wouldn’t press.

“I…had a bad dream earlier,” he started, “which wouldn’t be a problem, you know it wouldn’t, a dream is just a dream once you wake up. But I did something stupid.”

Aziraphale made a soft, inquisitive sound. Crowley wondered if he was uncomfortable sitting on the wood floor like that. 

“I…You know I don’t like changing shape,” Crowley mumbled.

“Yes,” said the angel.

“Well, I dreamed that I got stuck,” Crowley hissed. “That I changed and I got stuck, like I’m always afraid I will. And I thought, like an absolute _idiot,_ that I ought to prove to myself that it wouldn’t happen. ‘I’m safe here,’ I thought. ‘Nothing will happen, I’ll just prove it to myself once and for all, and it’ll be fine.’ So—so I turned myself into a snake, and—and I _hate_ being a snake! I like having _fingers_ , and _feet,_ and being able to see more than a few feet off of the ground, and I haven’t _been_ a snake in so long that I forgot how _much_ I hated it, and—and.” Crowley choked, breath catching in his throat. 

“And. I…I did. Get stuck. I’m _stuck,_ angel. You’re married to a snake. You’ll have to tell the neighbors that I died, it was very tragic, and in a fit of loneliness you bought yourself a pet to cope, a massive _bloody_ serpent!” Crowley shoved his head completely beneath the cushion, and then slithered underneath it. Better to block out the rest of the world, as much as he could. Better to hide away than to be stuck like this: crawling on his belly in the dirt for eternity. 

“I shan’t be telling _anyone_ that you died,” Aziraphale said plainly. Crowley poked his nose back out from under the cushion.

“Why not?”

“Because you haven’t,” said the angel. “My _husband_ is still right here, snake or not. I don’t care what you _look like,_ Crowley. I care about _you._ ”

Crowley’s heart gave a flop, and he felt that he’d be crying, now, if his corporation was in its proper shape. Serpents can’t cry. It was a rather large design flaw, in Crowley’s opinion; and considering that he was going to have to live out the rest of his days as a serpent, he thought his opinion counted rather more than most.

“I’m still _stuck,”_ he hissed.

“So you are,” agreed Aziraphale. Crowley stuck his whole head out from the cushion.

“You could sound a little more like you _care,_ ” he snapped. “You’re not the one who has to live like this—no more walks in the park, or glasses of wine, or dinners out.” Crowley’s coils tightened in on each other and he pulled his head back under the pillow. His voice became muffled. “No more holding hands. No more running my fingers through your hair. No more stubbing my toe on the dresser while you laugh at me,” he continued bleakly.

“I don’t believe that,” said the angel. “I don’t think that you’re stuck _forever,_ Crowley. Nothing is _forever._ But even if you were…we’d, we’d make do, wouldn’t we? Instead of dining out, I’d simply have to cook for us at home. And as for holding hands, don’t you think for an instant that I’d shy away from your touch just because you look different. We could still cuddle.”

“That sounds nice,” Crowley admitted. “Cuddling.”

“You need only say the word,” said Aziraphale. “But if not, that’s fine as well. Whatever you want, dearest.”

Crowley wanted to be human-shaped. But they couldn’t do anything about that, and he also wanted Aziraphale.

“Come here, angel? Hold me? I’m a little cold.”

“Of course.” 

He heard Aziraphale’s pajama clad legs slide across the floor, and then a shuffle as he stood. His footsteps approached, loud in the stillness of the night. They paused.

“I’m going to come around the font of the sofa, my dear, all right?” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s breath caught, but he forced it even.

“Mmyeah… okay.”

He couldn’t see the angel, covered by the pillow as he was, but he heard him walk around the side of the sofa to the front of it.

“My dear? Where are you? I wouldn’t want to sit on you by mistake. It’s awfully dark.”

“We live in the countryside, what do you expect,” Crowley grumped. His breathing felt somewhat more even, slightly less strained than it had before. “I’m under the pillow.”

There was a rustle, and then the sofa dipped under Aziraphale’s weight as he sat. A careful hand slid under the pillow and lifted it away.

“There you are, my love,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley screwed his eyes shut. “It’s good to see you. Thank you for letting me.”

“Ssshut up,” Crowley grumbled. “You’re a sap, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckled.

“I’m not. I’m being honest. I spent too long lying to myself about how I feel about things; I won’t do it anymore. Certainly not about something as important as you.”

“Hrshk,” said Crowley. He listened to Aziraphale laugh again. He did love the angel’s laugh, even in these circumstances.

“May I touch you, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley fought the urge to squirm.

“….Okay.”

A soft, warm hand landed on his spine below his head. It rested there for a moment, before Aziraphale’s thumb began to make gentle circles along his scales. It felt good, like a neck or backrub; like Aziraphale stroking his shoulders as they lay in bed, Crowley sprawled partway across his lap. He sighed and cracked open an eye.

“All right, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. His face was stupid-gentle; it was unbearable to watch. He looked at Crowley just the same as he had before.

“Yeah. ‘S good.”

“Good.”

“It’s not _cuddling,_ though,” hissed Crowley. Because maybe, with Aziraphale looking at him like that, like nothing had changed—well, it made him more willing to push his luck. If the angel really wasn’t repulsed _yet…._

“I can fix that,” said Aziraphale. “May I?” His fingers slid under Crowley’s belly.

“Yeah.”

The angel lifted him carefully, humming softly, and settled Crowley about his lap and chest. 

“There we go, dear.” He ran a fingertip along the top of Crowley’s head. “Is that all right? Are you comfortable?”

Crowley’s tongue flicked out, and he pushed his head up into Aziraphale’s hand before borrowing against his neck and under his chin. Aziraphale was very warm, and his hands were very soft. Perhaps if he pressed closer, then he’d be able to stop shaking.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Love you, angel.”

Aziraphale’s hand rubbed gently down his back.

“I love you too,” he said. “I love you, and it will be okay.”

“Thanks,” Crowley hissed weakly. The angel really did seem to believe it. 

Slowly he relaxed into the warmth of Aziraphale’s body and the gentleness of his touch. His heartbeat slowed to something near normal for the first time since he’d transformed and promptly panicked; his shaking gradually became the slightest occasional tremor. Neither of them spoke; Aziraphale just held him, warm and soft and comfortable, and Crowley drank in the familiarity, the feeling of safety; of home.

The room was quiet apart from their breaths and Aziraphale’s heartbeat; he could hear it and feel its vibrations in the angel’s chest, nestled so close. 

It was still dark, but beyond the curtained windows, the darkness took on a tinge of gray. Crowley had woken up near midnight; it would be morning soon. Morning, and they would face the day; he’d have to _deal_ with this. He pushed the thought away and snuggled closer.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” he said after a time. Aziraphale’s heartbeat stayed steady and the rhythmic stroking of his hands stayed just the same.

“For what?”

“For...for _what?_ For being a disaster, angel. For fucking this all up, and ruining what we had. For being incompetent.” He took a shaking breath, and smelt the angel’s skin against his nose, and their favored laundry detergent from his shirt collar. “We were _happy_ ,” he said. “Finally happy and able to be together, and I...I ruined it.”

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale said. There was something aching in his voice. “You haven’t ruined anything. We’re still together, aren’t we? That’s all _I_ ever wanted. To be together with you, freely, however we pleased; to be able to tell you that I love you, no matter our...political alignment. No matter what you look like, or what you do. You’re stuck with me, Crowley, un—unless you decide that _you_ want me gone, that is, which I rather hope you never will. And I am willing to _fight_ for our happiness; I’ll have you know that I won’t give it up that easily, whether you’re a serpent or not. So don’t apologize, please. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Hm.” Crowley sagged once more against the angel’s chest. He let the words echo in his head and tried his best to believe them. 

Outside, the sun crept over the horizon in a sliver, and the faint light shifted from gray to an orangey gold. Aziraphale began to hum something softly, a tune that Crowley recognized, but didn’t care to think hard enough to put a name to. It rumbled in the angel’s chest, though, deep and soothing alongside the steady beating of his heart. 

Aziraphale loved him; Aziraphale didn’t think that his mistake had destroyed everything. Aziraphale was intelligent, and kind, and surprisingly innovative when properly motivated. Perhaps they _would_ be all right. Perhaps this wasn’t forever; and maybe even if it was, he would be okay. 

He took a deep, slow breath, and pulled back slightly from the angel, tipping his head to look up at Aziraphale’s face in the pale gold morning light. He was beautiful, sunlight catching in his fair curls and casting shadows along the soft lines of his face. He raised an eyebrow at Crowley in question. Crowley shook his head.

“I’m gonna try something,” he hissed quietly. “I’m going to try something, and even if it doesn’t work, it won’t be—it won’t be the end of the world.” He chuckled slightly, and Aziraphale laughed with him. 

“We already weathered that anyway,” said the angel. “But go ahead, my love. I’ll be here, no matter what.”

“Right,” hissed Crowley. “I know.” His breathing was even, his shaking steadied. He’d try. And if it didn’t work, he’d still be okay. He took a breath. Slowly, carefully, without blind panic and discomfort and fear this time, he reached inside himself and _pulled._ He twisted and turned and tucked and stretched and he remade himself. He did it easily; as simply as folding clothes to put them in a dresser drawer. He blinked, and found himself nose to nose with Aziraphale. His hands rested on the angel’s shoulders, feather-light, and his legs were tucked beneath him on his lap. Aziraphale’s eyes were glistening in the golden light. He smiled at Crowley.

“See? Not forever.”

“Not forever,” Crowley whispered, and then leaned forward so that their lips brushed as well. The kiss was brief and gentle, and one of Crowley’s hands wound up into Aziraphale’s hair. The angel caught the other with his own. 

They pulled away and rested their foreheads against each other, gently breathing the same air. Aziraphale was crying, and Crowley was too. That was all right. They were the good kind of tears, like rainfall after a drought. 


End file.
